Drowned Under Page 15

  The boxes I’d seen in the hold were addressed to The Fountain. They’d indicated a spa, except for the Dolophine, whatever the hell that was. I would have to go back in the hold. I could hardly wait. Leave it to Peggy Newsome to ruin my life even over the International Date Line.

  Harriet’s second email was more cryptic. “Don’t mention the Manzonis to anyone until you talk to me. My friend Scott will get you to the boat if you’re late. He’s a serial dater, don’t waste your time. Hang on to these until I see you and I’ll explain. Hxx” At the bottom of the email were more numbers and letters like the ones I’d found on the paper in her room—all starting with CT.

  My heart hurt. It seemed more and more likely that looking for the Manzonis had put Harriet in danger. I paid another outrageous fee to have her emails printed out, put out a few small travel agent fires, and was ready for another flat white, to go. I didn’t understand why they didn’t just call it a cappuccino, but it was damned delicious, in any language.

  I hurried for the ship. I wanted to get back to those Fountain boxes and to the Koozer’s friend, who’d been the steward for the Manzonis. As I got to the ramp, Doc and Lisa the hostess, both wet and grinning, ran up. Doc gave me a cursory nod and whispered something to Lisa, who looked back with a smug grin. I guessed I wouldn’t be dining at the Captain’s Table anytime soon. Or visiting the infirmary either. Damn.

  I kicked myself. This was no time for romance anyway. I had one more night to pump the crew for info before I got to Hobart. And maybe by then, Dr. Paglia would get back to me. I really, really wanted to be wrong about Harriet’s murder, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t.

  I headed up to my cabin. Despite my Do Not Disturb card, I got the sense someone had been there besides the housekeeper. My lipsticks were in the wrong order and closet wasn’t quite closed. I wondered whether the thug from Brazil’s room had been looking for my nude heels, or revenge, or whether the Risk Management guys were still “investigating” the crime scene. Of course it might be that I’d just been asking too many questions and whoever’d killed Harriet was lying in wait to bash in my head too. I wished I’d stolen Brazil’s straightening iron. My Balenciaga weighed forty pounds most days, so I held it up and rammed open the closet door.

  No intruders, but someone had rifled through my clothes. I found shoulders off hangers and palazzo pants slumped on the floor.

  I took a minute to evaluate my evidence. I had the photos of the Manzonis with the Captain and with Ron Brazil. Damn, in all the horror of the last few hours, I’d forgotten to ask him about them. And I’d forgotten to try to open Elliot’s flash drive in the computer cafe. Was I ever going to get my Brooklyn brain back?

  I had a bruise, an injection site, blood, fingerprints, and khaki fabric. I had a half-opened box for The Fountain labeled Dolophine. I had a Captain who was first and foremost trying to save her job, and a Staff Captain who would probably welcome a scandal on board so he could take over. I had a fake photographer, who could be a creep, a criminal, or just desperately single. I had Harriet’s scrunched up note, her emails, and her illusive real or faux husband. I hit the “steward” button. I had some questions for the Koozer.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I barely heard my favorite steward knock. If he was afraid of me, I was going to work that to my advantage. When he entered, even his preppy haircut looked stressed.

  “I like Esmeralda, by the way. When a woman is willing to go into a coffin for you, don’t screw it up, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “Now, I need three things and I don’t have any more cash until we get to Hobart, so you’re going to have to give me a line of credit.”

  “There are ATMs on Decks Ten and Twelve.”

  “If you think I am going to pay a five-fifty fee on top of the bank charge, you’re insane. And before you say it, I’m not using my one chance to cash a personal check when we have four days left. The way things have been going, I might need another helicopter.”

  “Advance on your sea pass?”

  “Koozer, seriously.”

  “Okay.”

  “First, you need to give me a better description of the man you saw with Harriet”

  “How much credit is it worth?”

  “A kick in the balls.” I flexed the Stuart Weitzmans I’d barely saved from Ron Brazil.

  “The type of guy who sells life insurance and reverse mortgages. Very white, trim, tall, blondish hair. Black eyebrows. He was wearing khakis and a purple checked long-sleeved shirt. He didn’t tip.”

  “And you’re sure you haven’t seen him again, anywhere, since then?”

  He shook his head. I pulled out Harriet’s list. In the legible version, all the items started with CT, followed by numbers and dashes. I didn’t recognize the numbers as dates until it hit me. Everything was backwards in Australia. If the days came first, then the months, it could be dates. But what did that mean? And what was CT? Cat Scan? Customer Transport? Cruise Terminal?

  If it meant Cruise Terminal, maybe I could put the dates together with the times the ship was in port. Could that have something to do with the disappearances? I held out the list.

  “Koozer? Is that a ship term? CT?”

  “Sure. It means Captain’s Table. It’s the list of the guests who’ve been invited, how many times, etc. The cruise line keeps a record, and it helps the Captain and her staff keep track of who’s been where, who’s due for an invitation, etc.”

  “And this number?” The extra numbers were always 1, 2, 3, or 4.

  “I don’t recognize those. What is that, anyway?”

  “Nothing. I need to talk to your friend, the one who took care of the Manzonis’ cabin.”

  He looked at his watch. “Well, you can’t wear that. You look like a passenger.”

  Ten minutes later we were headed down the back stairs. The Koozer was remarkably spry. I barely kept up, mostly because the Housekeeping uniform he’d borrowed was tight on me. Honestly, how could anyone clean a bathtub in this? We moved lower into the metaphoric and literal bowels of the ship. I got a waft of alcoholic sweat, rotting trash, basement, disinfectant, and fresh paint. It was a beehive of activity, the way I’d imagined the tunnels below Disneyland. As a travel agent, I knew any paradise featured an underbelly.

  I watched as the Koozer nodded to a series of other crew members in various jackets and uniforms. I got a few stares, but everyone seemed too busy to stop me.

  I followed him down a hall to a place I’m not sure qualified as a room. Or even a closet. Maybe half a closet. There were bunk beds with about one foot between them and the desk. I thought I glimpsed a bathroom, but the toilet was in the shower. That couldn’t be right.

  “Wow.” I said. “I’m not tipping you enough.”

  “Yeah. That’s why we all spend our time in the dining hall and the bar.”

  “Yeah, it makes the morgue look like a suite.” He stared at me. “I’m not going to tell. What is the deal with that, anyhow?”

  “What do you mean? With Esmeralda?” We stood outside the nautical hovel. “What do you think? Love. I was on a cruise with my family in the Caribbean. Esmeralda was a singer on the ship. But they fired her because she got too many piercings, so she had to come back here. Neither of us can afford to fly to see the other, so I wrangled a job with Darling and finally got this route. We only get four days a month in Melbourne, and they can move you to another ship or another route anytime they want, so we try to see each other while we can. That’s what the tips are for. So we can get married.”

  “Koozer, you are either the best con man in the world, or a total sweetheart.” I felt like hugging him, but instead, wrote out another IOU. What the heck. It was Christmas. “What now?”

  “Nylo must be in the dining room,” he said. “You can’t go in there. I’ll get fired. Just hide behind the door until I get back.”

  Once
he closed the door I was already in the crevice behind it, the headboard of the bunk bed digging into my back. I stepped forward just as he smashed the door into my head, which was fine. I didn’t already have a headache or anything.

  The Koozer stood there with a small man in his early twenties with the straightest, thickest, blackest hair and the most serious expression I’d seen since Catholic school. He was holding a loaf of white bread and a bowl of rice, looked like he hadn’t been to bed since Thanksgiving, and reeked of rum. Koozer punched his arm.

  “Nylo. Ms. Redondo wants to know about the Manzonis. Do you remember them?”

  He groaned, then caught himself. “I apologize, ma’am.”

  “No apology necessary. They’re my ex-in-laws. I groan every time I think of them too. They’re loud, messy, and unless they’ve changed, terrible tippers. The thing is, they’ve gone missing, and though they probably deserved it, I need to find out what happened to them.”

  I pulled out a notepad and wrote an IOU for twenty bucks. “The Koozer’s already taken me for all my cash, but I’m good for it. Right?”

  The Koozer shrugged.

  “Hey!”

  “Yes, she’s good for it.”

  “Would you mind if I asked you about them while you’re eating? I know you have to get to work.”

  He shrugged too. I guess the crew had to conserve their energy, and saved politeness/ass kissing for above-board. Fair enough. I was invading their world, after all.

  “Did you notice anything weird about their behavior?”

  “All Americans are weird.”

  “Yes, well, besides standard American weird.”

  “They fought a lot.”

  That didn’t surprise me. “Bickering or yelling?”

  “Both.”

  “Do you remember anything at all they might have said?”

  “Yeah. They acted like I didn’t exist. That happens a lot.” He chewed bread for a while. “They were talking about uptown and downtown? How there was no way in hell he was giving her half the traveler’s checks. She said he was in for an ugly surprise. That’s about all I remember, except for their asking for the cheapest Riesling. What’s the problem? The Staff Captain said they decided to stay in port.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He just said don’t worry about their cabin.”

  “That’s strange. Did you pack them up?”

  “Not really. Pretty much all their stuff was gone. There were a couple of things hidden under the mattress.” I stared at Nylo. “We always check. Passengers leave cash under there and forget it when they leave. We wait a week to spend it.”

  “A whole week. How Boy Scouts of America of you. What else?”

  “Bad ties. Really bad. And a cell phone.”

  I looked back and forth between them. They had me pegged as a sucker, that’s for sure. “How much? There’s no way it was a new model.”

  After a negotiation, I wrote out an IOU for fifty bucks. They made sure the coast was clear, and took me down a long, thin corridor where all the smells—fried rice, motor oil, Coppertone, spilled Planters Punches, and teenage boy—intensified. It got darker and louder as we went. I hoped I could trust these buffoons. I jumped a couple of times, due to the python-colored water hoses on the walls.

  Finally, we came to a door labeled “Lost and Found.” Nylo pushed on the door, knocking over an oversized bin of half-used toiletries. The room held every size and shape of luggage, from backpacks to trunks, single flip-flops, tuxedos, bathing suits, pool noodles, Mardi Gras masks, Star Wars Storm Trooper costumes, and a few toupees, among a million other things, were hanging and stacked everywhere.

  “Oh, my God. People leave all this? Do they ever claim it?”

  “Sometimes. But they have to pay the shipping and, depending on where the ship goes next, it could be months before they get it.”

  “Wow. What happens to it when it’s unclaimed?” Silence. Nylo took out a piece of bread, balled it up, and put most of it in his mouth. I walked around, filled with luggage envy, jealous that these people were so well-traveled that leaving their luggage was a mistake, not a tragedy.

  Nylo finished chewing. “We wait two months if it’s the next of kin claiming it.”

  “This is dead people’s stuff?”

  “Some of it. Or missing people. I mean they usually don’t pack to go overboard.”

  Koozer punched Nylo in the elbow. He bent over and dug around in a trash can and came up with a creamsicle-colored flip phone. “I think this is it. I remember because it was so ugly.”

  If the phone was here, that might explain why Sandra hadn’t answered Barry’s calls, but it could also mean she wouldn’t need it anymore. Ever.

  “Anything else?”

  “Maybe this?” It did look like one of Fredo’s polyester suits. I checked the label. Third Avenue Big and Tall. Bingo. I folded up the suit, and put the phone in my bag.

  “Thanks, Nylo.”

  Then I stopped. “Over there. Isn’t that the Manzonis’ luggage?” I’d loaned Margy a piece of luggage and put a Redondo Travel globe sticker on it so she wouldn’t forget to give it back. It hadn’t worked. “I thought you said they took their luggage onshore.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen it since I moved them in. This is bad, right?”

  While the stewards retrieved the bag, I grabbed a couple of Mardi Gras masks and some Jimmy Choo sandals and tucked them into my Balenciaga. It’s scary what stress can do to a person. What was I going to tell Barry?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  As soon as the bags were in and Koozer was safely out the door, I put Sandra’s suitcase on my bed. Had Fredo pushed her overboard, then dumped her bag? He was probably capable of it, but Harriet and the Cruise Director said they’d gone ashore together. It made no sense.

  I thought about the woman who’d been my mother-in-law for three months. She was first and foremost a social climber. She’d pushed Barry to do Cotillion, learn golf, run for student body president. Maybe that was why he wound up on fire, in a pirate suit, at the top of an escalator in Caesar’s Palace.

  I’d never been good enough for her and she’d made sure I felt it, evaluating every outfit with a head-to-toe sweep of her eyes, then an exaggerated sigh. She rushed to serve Barry at the table before I could, despite giving me How to Be the Perfect Housewife for my birthday. She made sure to add an over-the-top, extended shake of salt into anything I cooked, and always brought Barry a hot water bottle or Ovaltine, just as we were going to bed. You can imagine what her being in the next room did to our sex life, which was opportunistic at best, even from the beginning.

  I’d comforted myself with the thought that no one was good enough for her Barry—until she started inviting Angela Hepler over for dinner. And here I was, still trying to please her, or show Barry she’d been wrong. She was wrong. About fashion, at least. The suitcase confirmed it.

  She’d always dressed like she’d gone to have her colors done on Opposites Day. Her toiletries weren’t there, though, which gave me hope, unlike the phone, which sat like a fat toad in the middle of her Soft Surroundings tunics.

  I tried to turn it on. It didn’t have much battery, but the good news was, she’d maintained the “no locked doors” Bay Ridge policy on her device and I didn’t need a password. She wasn’t much on texting. Meaning there were no texts. I found a few phone numbers she’d dialed with a Tasmanian area code, though, and wrote them down. And of course, there were a few calls to Barry. Barry. God, I hadn’t even called him. What was wrong with me?

  It was too early in Brooklyn to call him now, his insomnia notwithstanding. I was meeting Sister Ellery for dinner, then Cruise-In and a Double Feature Night. They’d be projecting It’s a Wonderful Life, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, and Die Hard against the wall on Deck Ten, complete with popcorn, hotdogs, nachos,
artisanal ice cream, and Raisinets. It would make up a little bit for not watching Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, with my nephews and Uncle Leon.

  I needed to dress for dinner. I’d already used up my good black dress, so I went for a simple leopard print chiffon, swing style. It hit just above the knee and, though the nude heels I’d had on earlier really elongated my short legs, I took Brazil seriously for a millisecond and went for my “borrowed” Jimmy Choo sandals, just in case the henchman was still at large, instead of overboard, which is what I secretly suspected. I knew Brazil was slightly unhinged, particularly when it came to poachers. It made me worry about Sister Ellery. I still hadn’t told her about him. I focused on getting ready instead, hoping it would cheer me up.

  I looked at my hair and almost burst into tears. Obviously, the humidity here required extra styling gel. At this rate, my travel size would be empty in two days. And there wasn’t a concealer on earth that could take care of these jet lag/homicide stress circles under my eyes. I put on a bright red lipstick, to draw attention away from my blue eyebags, spritzed a little Chanel No. 19, grabbed my Balenciaga, and headed to Deck Ten via the Staff Captain’s office.

  Staff Captain Bentley’s assistant said he could be found on the bridge. I headed up in the elevator, then chickened out a floor below. My bravado/adrenalin from the morning had deserted me and I didn’t feel tough enough to fight for my life without at least two appetizers. Maybe it was better to wait until we were in Hobart, where I had an escape route that wasn’t the Tasman Sea. We would be there in less than eight hours. What could happen between now and then?

  I could still check the flash drive, but the only desktop I knew about was the one in Doc’s office. He wasn’t pleased with me at the moment, but it was worth a try.

  I headed down the stairs toward the Infirmary. On the landing, I found Elliot Ness, splayed out in a bad forest green and navy plaid jacket.

  “Elliot?” No answer. I dropped my Balenciaga and fell to my knees. No pulse. I slapped him. Nothing. I caught my breath so I could try CPR for the second time in forty-eight hours. It didn’t work this time either. People fell down cruise ship stairs all the time. Hence, resort torts. Still, like with Harriet, it didn’t feel like an accident. I remembered there’d been a defibrillator in Doc’s office and ran down the last two set of stairs. I heard a door slam above me, but didn’t have time to run back up. The Infirmary door was open.